


The Courting of Jocelyn Woodbryg

by rosncrntz



Category: Jamestown (TV)
Genre: Courtship, F/M, First Meetings, Pre-Canon, Romance, Samuel Castell is a sweet boy who loves too easily, Shady Past, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-11-27 07:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18191744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: The story of Samuel and Jocelyn’s courtship: a man who falls in love easily, and a woman whose heart has been made cold.Samuel Castell need not fear starting a new life in the new world, for his heart is entirely his own. However, as soon as he meets the beautiful young Jocelyn Woodbryg, it soon becomes clear that he is doomed. He is captured by an English girl, and she has every reason to have him fall in love.





	1. Chapter 1

Oxfordshire was very beautiful in the autumn; Samuel Castell would have been a heartless man indeed if he sailed from England without at least a small pang of grief at leaving this auburn homeland of his. But leave he must, for they were due to set sail come the springtime’s clement season, and he had been chosen by Secretary Farlow, he had signed his papers and the way forward to the new world was prepared for him. He was only thankful that he need not leave his heart behind in England and, with that comfort, he travelled to Oxfordshire, for there the society of the Baron Saye and Sele called him and, since it was his duty to leave, he felt that it was also his duty to show his face in fine English company one final time. This was what took him to the roads and led him to muse on the amber leaves which stirred under the wheels of his carriage: the passage to Broughton Castle.

The Castells had been in acquaintance with the Hampshire family of Kingsmill for a few generations, and the russet-haired daughter, Constance, had married the Baron Saye and Sele some thirty years previous and, hence, Samuel Castell fell under the shadow of Richard Fiennes, the 7th Baron and husband to Constance Kingsmill, and, thus, the Baron, aided by his knowledge that his other good friend, Nicholas Farlow, had recently given the young man employment in the Virginia Company and, therefore, having every reason to believe that young Samuel Castell was a man of significant promise, the 7th Baron Saye and Sele had invited Samuel to a masque on this day in the first chill of October. This complication of friends, spouses, and mutterings of his name in candlelit rooms was much mystery to Master Castell; all he knew was that he received an invitation to the manor house of a very wealthy man and that was an offer that could not be refused.

The auburn stirring leaves gave way to the sharply-cut stone standing as the gatehouse, itself stained golden in the evening’s dying light, gaping a wide mouth across the bridge (for the house was rounded by a moat which, Samuel observed as he looked from the window to its softly stirring waters, was flashing the sunset’s amber shades) through which Castell’s coach trundled and continued to the courtyard and the house which proudly crested the ground with tall dark windows and orange triangles and chimneys. The coachman took him to the door and Castell descended, a breeze and the trot of hooves at his back as the coachman started again for the stables. It was certainly a beautiful place and, as he breathed in its architecture in the burning light, it was with the pathos of knowing that he would not be seeing such old buildings, such beautiful monuments, for some time.

It is now perhaps pertinent to note that Samuel Castell was prone to sentiment; it was one of his more unfortunate qualities as a young man of a strong family in the reign of James I.

“Master Castell?” A grey-chinned man, rubbing two starchy hands together, had emerged from those immense oak doors: this was Richard Fiennes, the 7th Baron Saye and Sele, who was recognising the young man through a rather pleasing resemblance to his father, Edward Castell, whom he had met through the connections of his wife, in Hampshire, about five years ago.

“Yes, sir.”

“Welcome, welcome, do come in. You’re not too early, Master Castell, but you are the first to arrive. Do warm yourself. It is bitterly cold tonight.”

Samuel Castell was ushered into the Great Hall, a staunchly medieval room with a roaring stone fireplace and sparking coats of armour and weapons adorning the walls. The effect was to make young Castell feel very small indeed and, as he was the first of the night’s congregation to arrive, dwarfed in this fairytale cavern as the rain began to lash the windows (“Typical English weather,” Sir Richard had said), his palms began to sweat.

“Nicholas Farlow appointed you to Virginia, yes?” Sir Richard asked Master Castell as he poured himself a little honey wine (he had offered the same to Samuel but Samuel had politely refused due to a queasiness in his stomach).

“You know Secretary Farlow?”

“Oh, yes. Our fathers were good friends.” It seemed that every man in England had an intensely gregarious father. “As a recorder, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You must have an excellent hand.”

Samuel couldn’t help a blush as he replied in that deferent tone of a true idealist, “I don’t know about that, sir.” And no sooner had Samuel’s cheeks pinked than Constance Fiennes (previously Kingsmill) swept into the Great Hall.

“Samuel Castell!”

“Lady Fiennes.”

“How is your father?” She offered her hand for Samuel to kiss, which he did.

“Very well, thank you.”

“And your mother? Sisters?”

“Excellently, my lady.”

“I am so glad to hear it. How nice of you to join us.”

“I was just asking Master Castell about his Virginia Company position, my dear.”

“Oh! How wonderful for you, Master Castell. When do you leave?”

“In the spring, my lady.”

The russet-haired daughter of Kingsmill scarcely looked a day older than she had done when she married Richard Fiennes: the red of her hair was traced through with silver, and her cheeks had sunken in, but these things only served to aid her handsomeness. She certainly looked very handsome indeed when she turned to Samuel Castell and said, “Won’t it be lonely for you, Master Castell?”

One must understand that, though susceptible to a sentimental heart and thoughts of that nature, Samuel Castell was loath to be anything but practical and dignified in the company of others. He was not one of these souls to feel sorry for himself whilst the lot of many was far bleaker than his own. He had, certainly, worried for the state of his heart in the new world but, reminding himself of all the good he could do, he carefully folded his heart in muslin and put it aside and vowed to think of it at a later date.

It would be far lonelier for those in love with English souls that they were forced to leave behind.

“It will not be hard,” Samuel Castell said, thinking aloud, “for a man to live alone who is not in love.”

Sir Richard laughed at this - thinking, quite understandably, that Master Castell was making some sort of joke - but Lady Constance did not. It was noble indeed for a man to put his ideals before his capability for love but, Constance thought, hardly advisable. There was the sound of hooves amongst the rain and, much to the relief Master Castell’s palms, Sir Richard and Lady Fiennes diverted their attention to the arriving guests as, out among the plains of Oxfordshire, the ringing of the bells tolled the fifth hour.

It may be supposed from this that Samuel Castell was one of those lucky young men who had swaggered through his youth without the briefest brush of love on his shirt-sleeves. But this would not be true, for Samuel was unfortunate enough to see beauty in almost everything. No, indeed, he had been in love before and, of course, these loves had passed and Samuel had let himself rest on disappointment for a couple of days before moving along again (it must be remembered that self-pity was not one of Samuel Castell’s behaviours). But at this time in October, it had been a twelve-month since Samuel Castell had last considered himself truly enamoured and, therefore, he felt quite safe.

“It must be dangerous to sail this time of year?” A papery man, a clergyman, with a dower expression set deep into his sallowed cheeks and a penchant for asking questions was at this time talking to Samuel. Samuel had missed his name, and he hoped that the information would not be needed.

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“Have you sailed before?”

Samuel Castell had barely left Kent.

“Er, no... I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“Nervous, are you?”

“Perhaps a little.”

“No need to be. You’re a healthy young man, aren’t you?”

This was a question which Samuel felt very unsure how to answer and, so, etiquette compelled him to a polite - if a little awkward - laugh and a nod and, soon, the guests were called through to the ballroom where, beside the lowlight of the west-facing window, there were a group of minstrels already playing music. As Samuel Castell rounded the back of the rabble, filing neatly into the long room, he was enchanted by the sound of lutes and pipes. The Baronet and his Lady were the first to dance - Samuel watched them from the corner with idle amusement - and soon other couples began to drift into the movement. Like chess, figures moved in squares around each other to a soft melodious beat, their skins beating in the candles and catching the silvery threads of their cloths like fine slivers of moonlight. Samuel’s eyes passed over grand men and fine women and the rich and lovely and the unfamiliar and the friendly.

Samuel’s eyes glanced beyond the shoulder of a turning gentleman and, as this man’s sleeve dipped in pursuit of a young lady’s hand, Samuel Castell caught the gaze of a young lady whose eyes – the palest blue – struck him as the very pearls of beauty. The dancing man straightened himself and the vision of this angel was lost to him. He dipped his eye - oh, to have this vision appear to him again! Perhaps that was all she was: a vision to please his eye and no material thing at all, a trick of the candle’s haze and crystalline rainwater on the glass. Had her cheeks coloured, in that brief moment they shared a glance? Or was that a trick of his imagination too? Ah! There she was, no longer looking in his direction but looking upwards, the line of her neck long and fine and just touched by the loosest curls of her lemony hair.

To dance with such an angel – what a delight that would be.

Soon she was asked to dance by a young man; a young man who was not Samuel himself, much to his disappointment. Samuel saw her give a small nod, and take his hand, though she did not seem entirely comfortable with the gesture, Samuel noticed. But her gown brushed the floor in brassy hues as she walked, those fine embroideries around the neckline growing deeper and more fascinating in the changing light. The grace of her movements eased him, drew him. And, as she danced, he could imagine it being him, and the mere thought of it made his chest flutter.

Was it possible that he had fallen in love so quickly, at nothing more than a glance? Could he be that much of a fool?

Evidently, yes – for, at this moment in time, young Castell’s mind was thickly buzzing the thrilled awe of her and the thousand questions all diverging to the same divine knowledge: who was she?

Lady Constance had left the floor for a moment and was unattended by idle chatter and, seizing his chance, Samuel approached her with a question leaping from his lips, “Please tell me, Lady Constance, who is that lady?” The lady followed Master Castell’s eyeline, across moving bodies on to the form of a young woman of a wealthy Banbury family, well-known indeed to the graceful class of this part of the country.

“That is James Woodbryg’s only child.”

Samuel Castell was conscious not to sound too keen, or to make a fool of himself (for all he knew, this lady could at this moment be dancing with her betrothed but – oh – he hoped not), but he could not stop himself from asking, “Might I ask her name?”

“Jocelyn.”

Samuel gazed at her again and, as if trying the sound of it, he breathed, “Jocelyn.”

Lady Constance viewed Castell at a distance with a wry squint of her eye and, seeing right through him, asked, “Would you like me to introduce you, Master Castell?”

“Oh, well, I…” That terrible skipping fear! It was the breaking of many a potential love affair, that sharp terror that comes with talking to a lovely creature. “Is it appropriate?” Constance laughed at this question; neither her nor Samuel himself knew entirely what the question was supposed to mean and, so, as the playing of the lutes swelled towards some inevitable climax, Lady Constance urged Samuel Castell to follow her, where they would accost the young Mistress Woodbryg as she left the floor.

Samuel Castell felt like a shy mewling schoolboy, standing behind Lady Constance, pathetically fixing the line of his doublet and resisting the urge to fix his hair for dignity’s sake.

“Mistress Woodbryg?”

The lutes had silenced, the dancers ceased, and the beautiful lady was descending her grace on Samuel Castell and he, meanwhile, was trembling.

“Lady Constance.” Jocelyn Woodbryg gave a small curtsy, looked at the lady and, with some curiosity, turned her gaze over her shoulder towards the man struggling for words and barely able to keep her eye. Tall, fawn-haired, blue-eyed and well-featured; kind looking, though she knew better than to take that for truth. His clothes were fine. He was wealthy. And Jocelyn Woodbryg, being a sharp girl, saw in his breathless stare that he was completely enamoured with her already.

“Have you met Master Castell?” Lady Constance stood aside and, emboldened by a duty to polite behaviour, Samuel Castell found it in himself to stand forward and he smiled at the lady. His smiles did not take courage to bestow, for Samuel Castell’s smiles lay just below the surface of all his other expressions and, in the sight of such a woman, it would be impossible for him to keep the smile from his face.

Jocelyn observed his smile, knew it to be a handsome one, and replied, “I do not believe I have.” A hand she offered was plucked, kissed, and it then burned hot at her side.

“An honour, Mistress Woodbryg.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she replied. What Samuel Castell took for humility, she meant as coldness. But how could Samuel Castell have seen even a touch of ice in this maiden, dressed in her flaming bronze, a vision of coppers and golds, warm to the touch?

“May I have this next dance?”

How could Samuel Castell have noticed her hesitancy, when he was so desperate to see her delight? All he could see was the bright curl of her lips, the way a flash of light sat in her gaze, and the nod of her head and, soon, he was dancing with her. His hand looped around her waist, fingers spreading over the small of her back, just high enough to be appropriate, but low enough to make Jocelyn’s heart surge.

How could Samuel Castell have known that his hand was not the first to hold Jocelyn Woodbryg in such a way? And how was he to know that the last had used Jocelyn for all she was worth and now all he danced with was a shell? A beautiful shell, indeed, but – had Samuel Castell met Jocelyn Woodbryg some two months earlier – he would have met a girl unrecognisable from this one. For she was summer and muslins and white daisies and romance, whilst this Jocelyn was stiff and formal beneath a man’s touch. If Jocelyn was April, then Jocelyn was harsh December. Her smiles and curtsies were all show, and that almost imperceptible swelling of breath in her breast which Samuel Castell took for nervousness was in fact bitterness. And the way her fingers trembled was not the anguish of love, but the memory of another.

But how was Samuel Castell to understand any of this, when – as far as he knew – he was dancing with an angel?

Lady Constance had watched Samuel Castell closely for the remainder of the night, as he was introduced to James Woodbryg as the recently appointed Recorder of the Virginia Company, as he talked a little more with Jocelyn (it was important to Samuel that he fall in love with more than a pretty face, for he was sensible enough and good-hearted enough to want a woman of good heart too). Lady Constance watched as he kissed her hand once again to bid her farewell (too soon!) and, then, as he stood alone, a little wistful (thinking of when he might next meet her), for half an hour more before he, too, excused himself, and left the gathering. He had arrived at Broughton Castle with his heart in his chest, but he left without it.

“I do pity that poor boy.”

“Who’s that, my dear?” the Baron, who was a little squiffy, asked, clinking metal together as he collected drinking cups that had been left around the fireplace. The hour was late. The guests had left. His wife was stood beside the window as the last dregs of coaches made their merry way over the moat.

“Master Castell,” she mused.

“Master Castell? He’s a man of excellent fortune. What has he to be pitied for?” His wife laughed at him - the blind fool.

Constance had watched Samuel Castell lose his heart to England.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jocelyn knew she should not be fallen in love with. She had no business with love, not now.

A hot bath was prepared, and Jocelyn Woodbryg stood in a dignified silence as her waiting woman loosed her ties, her corset, and shed her lady’s grand attire, her skin of fineries, and revealed her daintier skin, which soon found comfort in the warm water. She ached from dancing – how she hated all this whirling and turning, all to dizziness and nothing more! But she was home now, and the room was quiet, save the trickle of water around her body and the hushed movements of Cordelia as she collected the various perfumes from the cabinet along with the hairbrush and sponge and robe. Having placed them at the foot of the tub, Cordelia began to unbraid her lady’s hair. Cordelia had noticed a change in her lady of late, a certain hardness where her lady was once soft, but there was something different again in Mistress Woodbryg’s countenance tonight, as she pined in thought whilst her hair was brushed from its tresses, de-laced of the pearls that had been pinned into it.

“You are quiet tonight, my lady,” Cordelia said, placing pearl hairpins into a small tin, careful not to pull on Jocelyn’s scalp as she removed them. Jocelyn had begun to scoop the water on to her shoulders, which were tight. “How was your evening?”

“I think I have had enough of parties and people, Cordelia.” Her voice was low, unwavering from a steely shallowness. Cordelia closed the tin where she kept the pearl pins and, taking the brush in her hand again, she ran the bristles through Jocelyn’s hair until it was pillowy and thick and, as she did so, she said, “You looked beautiful tonight, though, my lady.”

Jocelyn gave a small smile and, taking her waiting woman’s free hand, she replied, “I thank you,” and, then, in a voice more pregnant with purpose, she said, “but that is just the problem.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Cordelia asked her.

“I was admired tonight,” Jocelyn sighed, rubbing her eye, for it was aching her most tediously. 

Cordelia only smiled at this and said, “Is that not good news, my lady? Is he not an eligible match? Is he not a serious sort of gentleman?”

“No, I think he is quite the serious sort.” Jocelyn was tugging at a piece of hair with her wet fingers, turning it darker and darker and straighter and straighter with every pull.

“Well, my lady, it is a compliment indeed!” 

Hardly thinking, she said, “I do not think I am the sort of woman one should fall in love with, Cordelia.” This was not a think her waiting woman could understand and, indeed, Jocelyn had not meant it for another’s ears. Only her own. So that her morality may wake itself to the danger she would put this gentleman in, or the danger she put herself in. She could still smell that poison: like bitter oranges, hurting the nose.

“Do not say such things! You are exactly the sort of lady one should fall in love with! Why, you are beautiful, and kind, and virtuous, and-”

“This gentleman does not know me.”

“But he will, with time, and he’ll come to know how good you are.”

“He will never know me.” The air, thick with the heat from the water, was dulling Jocelyn’s senses, drowsing her into this state of talking, and it took Cordelia’s baffled scoff to wake her to her indiscretion, and jolt her back to herself. “It is, perhaps, rather that I do not want to be fallen in love with.” That was true, indeed. Love had only been cruel. Love was the whip hand over her sex; that spider in the corner of the room. Smelling fragrant, wickedly sharp.

She understood that now, if too late.

“Oh, what a thing to say!” cried Cordelia. Jocelyn was not surprised that her waiting woman did not understand – how could she? She had never been played like an ornate fiddle under the hot hands of men who disguise their predation as mere flattery. For Cordelia, the eyes of a young clerk in town whilst she collected reams of fabric for a new gown was blush-inducing. Love, for her, was all charm and sweetness, blunted edges and mellow colours. It was the touch of a lover’s hand and the believing that they are true. Samuel Castell’s hand had felt just that soft, when he took it to dance with her, as soft as a lover’s and just as delicate, vaguely tentative, trembling almost imperceptibly. Samuel Castell was mellow colours and bright, embarrassed smiles. He was all hope and innocence. Love bared naked. She could almost pity him. So much like her once. She could scarcely trust him and, yet, she wanted to.

If only he had met her before. A year ago, she would have fallen in love with a man like that: supple-hearted, exposed and thrilled. He came too late.

“What is this gentleman’s name, my lady?” Cordelia asked, eyeing her distraction in two plaintive blue eyes. Cordelia had the vain hope of cheering her lady with thoughts of this gentleman (it was unfortunate, of course, that Cordelia had little sensitivity to the emotions of others).

“His name is Samuel Castell.”

“Is that right? Oh, I believe I have heard that name.” As it turned out, Miss Cordelia Pamfrey was close with a young tailor – a certain talented Geoffrey Darnes, exceptionally good at sewing neat seams – who was, just the other day, running her through names from a list of his soon-to-be acquaintances in the new world – all for fun. Samuel Castell, she remembered, was one of these names. She remembered it especially because it was such a handsome name. “He is to be sent to Virginia, is he not?”

Jocelyn eyed her suspiciously as she said, “As the recorder, yes. Why, do you know him, Cordelia?”

“Oh, no, my lady, but I am acquainted with a tailor recently appointed to the Company and, well, he mentioned a Master Castell.”

“And what did he say? What sort of a man is he?”

“He has not met him yet but… oh, well…” Cordelia’s voice was beginning to take on that high-pitched quality that made Jocelyn cringe – how she hated being bored by her idle excitement. “This is exciting, isn't it, Mistress Woodbryg? He is a man of excellent fortune and-”

“Please, Cordelia, I have a headache,” Jocelyn snapped – which was not entirely a lie. Jocelyn felt light-headed and, whether it was the heat of the bath or the strength of her distress, she was fit to swoon. Cordelia helped her from the water, lifted her nightgown over her head, and obeyed her mistress’ command when she was dismissed, leaving the woman with an ominous sense of trouble.

It was peace to be alone at last. Her skin was hot and her head a little dreamy from the steam and dark – her eyes were dancing over the flame of a candle, blue streams marking themselves on her vision. Her feet were almost silent on the staircase when she decided to venture downstairs. Tapping on the wood, her form shining slightly with sweat as she crept into the hall, towards the cabinet, opened it, took out a small box and a key from the pocket of her nightgown and unlocked it with quiet actions. Her shoulders were clear of overlooking company, and she moved to the other room to sit. Her parents were upstairs and she needn’t fear company. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace, crackling its flicking tendrils and spitting little puffs of embers, red lights. She flicked through the box in silence.

Jocelyn Woodbryg was no fool - not anymore - so that press of the young man’s hand into her back whilst they danced, that depth to his gaze, the tremble of his voice and the linger of the kiss he gave her hand, she knew these to be the hallmarks of love’s first tentative steps in her direction. It frightened her almost as much as it angered her. She could still feel another: his hand, his gaze, his voice. Sure, Samuel Castell differed in much from her previous – Master Castell had brighter eyes, a more polished appearance, smarter and more well-mannered – but he was a man. And that was enough.

She moved swift fingers through the contents of the box, pulling papers free, looking over them.

These were the letters that lay as remnants of her heart. And she viewed them as one views tragedy in a museum: a carefully studied sadness, but a cold removal from it all. An almost scientific interest governed the reading of those words, the same calculating mind that had planned his murder. I adore you; your beauty; my angel; love; my heart is yours; when shall I see you more; my love is selfish; I must be yours entirely. No longer seeming addressed to her. It was evidence of her coldness, cause for her anger, justification for her action.

Yours forever.

He was not wrong: she had claimed him with a bitter glass of wine. But now she was hunted for it.

She did not like to believe that anyone would suspect her: blonde, beautiful, wealthy. But sin travels with fear; the two are companions, and her fear was catching. She had known for some time now that she needed to get out somehow but, alas, her gender kept her in firm but pretty shackles. Oxfordshire was her prison; her auburn homeland which kept her sedated and predated.

Here he was. Samuel Castell. She could not love him. She may want to. But that did not matter. All that mattered to her, as she stood up, a bundle of old and hated love letters clasped in the pale claw of her hand, these shreds of her once bleeding heart, and all that mattered as she threw them into the fire and watched their edges crisp and curl, black and glowing, was the ship. The sea. The new world and its fresh air and fields and opportunity. A boat was her saviour; her ascension.

Samuel Castell could get her on a boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time - but hopefully you enjoyed!
> 
> Please do let me know your thoughts - more Samuel content next chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful, lovely Samuel Castell content - it's what we all need.
> 
> Please do let me know your thoughts below. More on the way soon!


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